


goro akechi's field notes on a false reality

by shenyanigan



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bad End AU, Gorey Imagery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenyanigan/pseuds/shenyanigan
Summary: On the night of 1/16, Akira Kurusu is handed an impossible ultimatum.On the morning of 2/3, Goro Akechi wakes up.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 12
Kudos: 164





	1. november 3rd.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to crimes for the title suggestion! this fic will update weekly. sundays 5pm EST. there will be multiple kinds of perspectives, including some first person. i hope you'll enjoy it anyways!
> 
> edit: lol. so i'm a liar. i'm very sorry. this fic will update eventually.

—- _november_ _3rd._

Goro Akechi shoots God in the head.

There is no preamble. Goro, ragged, tearing at the flesh on his arm because the feeling of pain reminds him of suffering and suffering is _real_ , this is _real,_ he's not gone yet, not brain dead yet, walks into the counselor's office/throne room hybrid and uses his good hand to steady his aim and shoot God straight through the head. The bullet hits and tears through the middle, leaving brain matter and bone shards on the sterile white throne behind Him, blood trickling down His face, covering His eyes. His head lulls forward. The blood goes with it, pooling in His lap. A part of Goro immediately recoils watching the scene, at the memories of another throne room, of another gun and another life he took with his sordid hands, but he's mostly just happy. Happy, happy, happy. This is what he wanted. He achieved it. Pleasure is his reward.

( _But it's not, but it's not, it's not, it's not, it's not—_ )

God ( _that's not his name_ ) straightens His back all the way up, so that He might look Goro in the eye. His head cocks to the side, His hands folded in His lap, legs crossed. There's a gaping hole in His head, sinew dangling in places. He smiles, and warmth inserts itself into Goro without asking, infecting all his cells. He shivers.

"Good evening, Akechi-kun," He says. "It's good to see you again."

Goro seethes, wind rushing through his teeth. Again, again, again, that's right. There's the rage tearing at his soul, the dog in him that never learned when to quit, and he clings onto it because it's life itself. This is not God, this is a man, this is a disgusting, compassionate ( _no_ ), terrible storm of a man who destroyed the world, and Goro came here because he has to—he has to find _him_ , and get _him_ out of here, so they can fix the mess that _he_ made, that they both made, that every single one of them fucking made when they decided to roll over and take this chewed-up, half-digested reality being spoon fed to them, and he has been doing this again and again and again and again all so he can finally rest.

"Fuck you," he spits, and it's vile, bile even, maybe; caustic words feel like chunks of himself he has to throw up and spew across the room like projectiles. "Where is he?!"

"Come along, Akechi-kun," says the man, says God ( _what's his NAME_ ), says: "It's getting late. Let me take you home."

Home. Home smells like fresh steamed rice, and it tastes like crisp white sheets that have somehow found their way inside his mouth, and it is warm Sunday morning and rainy fall evenings and boots splashing in puddles and laughter—lots and lots and lots of laughter, bubbling and fizzy and delighted in such a way that it makes Goro want to throw up from the sweetness his body was not built to digest, because this is not fucking real, because this is not home, because home is not home but it is a cold apartment in the Kyobashi building in Himonya with dirty clothes for rugs and takeaway boxes for roach beds, and it is not home because home is supposed to make you feel a pleasant sort of contentedness like sun, warming your skin, like _her_ saying good morning—but that house was home not because of its kindness, but the dregs of sour coffee at the bottom of the pots; reality is not meant to be sweet or gentle, that's what makes it _real,_ and this is not, it is, but it's not, but it's not, but it's not—

Goro clutches at his head, tries to claw at his chest to physically drag the air into his lungs, the knowledge into his heart. He will _not_ be bought. "Where is he?" he repeats, but it has so much less of him than he wants. "He's _in_ here somewhere, I—"

"It's alright, Akechi-kun," God shouts over him, except it's not shouting, because it's at a normal volume. Goro is the one losing his voice. "Just relax."

God is approaching. The hole in His head is just as wide as when Goro punched it through His skull. So too, is His smile. Everything smells like bad lavender cologne, thick and heady and sweet and smooth. It's getting harder to think. His vision swims. Shit, shit, shit, he has to fight, keep fighting, stay here, stay in the moment, just—

"Where—" Goro chokes out, trying to gouge sentient thought from his mind and spill it onto the white white floors of this disgustingly white palace. "Where—"

"Shhh," God presses a finger to His lips. "It's okay, Akechi-kun. It's okay."

He puts a hand on Goro's head and all the resistance in him falls to the floor. The rest of him follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me @ vintgecassette on tumblr/twitter


	2. february 23rd

_—-february 23rd._

> _[...] The ~~Garden~~ Palace is not a "Palace" anymore. It's merely a background object—a wallflower of sorts, if you will. Most days that I come here, I can barely tell it exists at all, save for the meager outline it casts that bulges against the tight veneer of this reality. This makes sense, of course. Palaces are distorted desires manifest; if the collective unconscious no longer sees these desires as distortions, but as the new cardinal rule, said desires and their rippling effects cease to be visible as such. However, the fact that it still exists—that I can still see its shape, and if I push hard enough against the boundaries of this world, it starts to come into focus—means that there must be a way to infiltrate it and, perhaps, dismantle it. Finding that entry point is top priority. It should lead me to you._
> 
> _I've attached a calendar page torn from my planner. I've marked the days that I could see the Garden's outline in green, and the days it was partially visible in orange. Empty spaces mean I could not see anything. I don't have the data to conclude a pattern just yet, but full visibility has recurred the last two Sundays—_

SCRITCH.

Goro's pen slides down the page in an ugly, angry, wayward mark that almost breaks the membrane of the journal page, because _some_ passing, careless asshole bumped him from behind. "Oh, sorry!" says said asshole the moment Goro turns to look at him, sheepish and apologetic, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I should watch where I'm going."

Goro should be annoyed. He is annoyed. Accident or no, he is nothing if not extremely self-centered and petty. _Yes,_ hisses Goro, _perhaps you could take a class in using your eyes._

"Oh, no," replies Goro with his most pleasant smile, because he just can't turn it the fuck off, can he? Not even now. "There's no need to apologize. No harm done."

Asshole is nodding, beaming back, and looks to be well on his way, when he stops short. Recognition floods his face. Nausea swirls in Goro's gut, thick and viscous. Not again.

"Wait—you're—"

Nobody. He's _nobody_.

"—Goro Akechi, right?" Asshole's so pleased with himself, he doesn't wait for a response. "Yeah, it's gotta be! The Detective Prince, right? Woah, I haven't seen you in forever. I loved your work."

Ugh. Goro's face lights up, a pleasure clawing beneath his skin, burning behind his cheeks. Tell him to fuck off. "Thank you," he replies, "but I was only doing my job."

"Wow, you're humble, too."

Roll your eyes.

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that! It's merely the truth."

God _dammit_ , Akechi—you're just as bad as—

"So cool," he's gushing now and it gets under Goro's skin, sweet and warm and sour, and Goro wishes it weren't this way, wishes more desperately than anything that he could just tell this motherfucker to get lost, to snarl his lip and tear the chaos out of his soul the way he tore shadows to pieces with big black claws that _he_ had willed into existence, the same way he willed his spirit of rebellion into existence years and years and years ago, when he'd had nothing and no one left to turn to, and god—a _real_ god—had said it was time he take matters into his own hands, instead of drowning in a dopamine flood that isn't even real, does this man even _really_ know him, does he—

Asshole is gone. Disappointment sinks in Goro's chest, and that's even worse, if only for the unspoken reality it implies.

He turns back to the unfinished stadium in front of him, Odaiba's harsh winter winds scrapping against his cheeks. There's nothing visible today. Was something supposed to be? What did it look like? What is he even searching for?

When he glances at his journal, the print is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me @ vintgecassette on tumblr/twitter


	3. entry 14

_Coming near the Garden on days I can't see it is dangerous. I should stay away for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me @ vintgecassette on tumblr/twitter


End file.
